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SEAWARD 


AN    ELEGY     ON    THE    DEATH    OF 
THOMAS    WILLIAM    PARSONS 


BY 

RICHARD    HOVEY 


BOSTON 

D.    LOTHROP    COMPANY 

1893 


COPYRIGHT,  1893, 

BY 
RICHARD  HOVEY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


•Se. 


"tttremolar  della  marina."— DANTE. 


M51197O 


Looking  seaward  well  assured 
That  the  word  the  vessel  brings 
Is  the  word  they  wish  to  hear. 

—  EMERSON. 

There  is  a  city  builded  by  no  hand, 

And  unapproachable  by  any  shore, 
And  unassailable  by  any  band 

Of  storming  soldiery  forevermore. 

—  PARSONS. 


SEAWARD 


HE  tide  is  in  the  marshes.    Far 

away 
In  Nova  Scotia's  woods 

they  follow  me, 
Marshes  of  distant  Massa 
chusetts  Bay, 
Dear  marshes,  where  the 
dead  once  loved  to  be ! 
I  see  them  lying  yellow  in 

the  sun, 

And  hear  the  mighty  tremor  of  the  sea 
Beyond  the  dunes  where  blue  cloud -shadows  run. 


II. 


KNOW  that  there  the  tide  is 

coming  in, 
Secret  and  slow,  for  in  my 

heart  I  feel 
The  silent  swelling  of  a  stress 

akin; 
And  in  my  vision,  lo !  blue 

glimpses  steal 
Across  the  yellow  marsh -grass, 

where  the  flood, 
Filling  the  empty  channels,  lifts  the  keel 
Of  one  lone  cat-boat  bedded  in  the  mud. 


ni. 


The  tide  is  in  the  marshes.    Kingscrof t  fades ; 

It  is  not  Minas  there  across  the  lea ; 
But  I  am  standing  under  pilgrim  shades 

Far  off  where  Scituate  lapses  to  the  sea. 
And  he,  my  elder  brother  in  the  muse, 

The  poet  of  the  Charles  and  Italy, 
Stands  by  my  side,  Song's  gentle,  shy  recluse. 


IV. 


HE  hermit  thrush  of  singers, 

few  might  draw 
So  near  his  ambush  in  the 

solitude 
As  to  be  witness  of  the  holy 

awe 
And  passionate  sweetness  of 

his  singing  mood. 
Not  oft  he  sang,  and  then  in 

ways  apart, 

Where  foppish  ignorance  might  not  intrude 
To  mar  the  joy  of  his  sufficing  art. 


V. 


Only  for  love  of  song  he  sang,  unbid 
And  unexpectant  of  responsive  praise ; 

But  they  that  loved  and  sought  him  where  he  hid, 
Forbearing  to  profane  his  templed  ways, 

Went  marveling  if  that  clear  voice  they  heard 
Pass  thrilling  through  the  hushed  religious  maze, 

Were  of  a  spirit  singing  or  a  bird. 


VI. 


|g;,  LAS!  he  is  not  here,  he 

will  not  sing ; 

The  air  is  empty  of  him  ever 
more. 

Alone   I    watch    the    slow    kelp- 
gatherers  bring 
Their  dories  full  of  sea-moss  to 

the  shore. 
No  gentle  eyes  look  out  to  sea  with  mine, 

No  gentle  lips  are  uttering  quaint  lore, 
No  hand  is  on  my  shoulder  for  a  sign. 


VII. 


Far,  far,  so  far,  the  crying  of  the  surf ! 

Still,  still,  so  still,  the  water  in  the  grass ! 
Here  on  the  knoll  the  crickets  in  the  turf 

And  one  bold  squirrel  barking,  seek,  alas ! 
To  bring  the  swarming  summer  back  to  me. 

In  vain ;  my  heart  is  on  the  salt  morass 
Below,  that  stretches  to  the  sunlit  sea. 


VIII. 


INTERMINABLE,   not  to  be 

divined, 

The  ocean's  solemn  dis 
tances  recede; 
A  gospel  of  glad  color  to 

the  mind, 

But  for  the  soul  a  voice  of 
sterner  creed. 

The  sadness  of  unfathomable  things 

Calls  from  the  waste  and  makes  the  heart  give  heed 
With  answering  dirges,  as  a  seashell  sings. 


IX. 


Mother  of  infinite  loss !    Mother  bereft ! 

Thou  of  the  shaken  hair !    Far-questing  Sea ! 
Sea  of  the  lapsing  wail  of  waves !    O  left 

Of  many  lovers !    Lone,  lamenting  Sea ! 
Desolate,  prone,  disheveled,  lost,  sublime ! 

Unquelled  and  reckless  !    Mad,  despairing  Sea 
Wail,  for  I  wait  —  wail,  ancient  dirge  of  Time ! 


X. 


more,  no  more 
that  brow  to  greet, 
no  more ! 
Mourn,  bitter  heart !    mourn, 

fool  of  Fate !    Again 
•Thy  lover  leaves  thee ;  from  thy 

pleading  shore 
Swept  far  beyond  the  caverns 

of  the  rain, 
No  phantom  of  him  lingers  on  the  air. 

Thy  foamy  fingers  reach  for  his  — in  vain ! 
In  vain  thy  salt  breath  searches  for  his  hair ! 


XI. 


Mourn  gently,  tranquil  marshes,  mourn  with  me ! 

Mourn,  if  acceptance  so  serene  can  mourn  ! 
Grieve,  marshes,  though  your  noonday  melody 

Of  color  thrill  through  sorrow  like  a  horn 
Blown  far  in  Elfland !    Mourn,  free- wandering  dunes ! 

For  he  has  left  you  of  his  voice  forlorn, 
Who  sang  your  slopes  full  of  an  hundred  Junes. 


XII. 


VIKING     Death, 
what  hast  thou 
done  with  him? 
Sea-wolf  of  Fate,  marau 
der  of  the  shore ! 
Storm-reveler,  to  what  ca 
rousal  grim 
Hast    thou    compelled    him  ?     Hark ! 

through  the  Sea's  roar 
Heroic  laughter  mocking  us  afar ! 

There  will  no  answer  come  forevermore, 
Though  for  his  sake  Song  beacon  to  a  star. 


XIII. 


Mourn,  Muse  beyond  the  sea  !    Ausonian  Muse ! 

Mourn,  where  thy  vinelands  watch  the  day  depart ! 
Mourn  for  him,  where  thy  sunsets  interfuse, 

Who  loved  thy  beauty  with  no  alien  heart, 
And  sang  it  in  his  not  all  alien  line ! 

Muse  of  the  passionate  thought  and  austere  art ! 
O  Dante's  Muse  !  lament  his  son  and  thine. 


XIV. 


ND     thou, 
divine  one 

of  this  western  beach  ! 
A  double  loss   has  left 

thee  desolate ; 

Two  rooms  are  vacant  in 
thy  House  of  Speech, 
Two  ghosts  have  vanished 
through  the  open  gate, 
The  Attic  spirit,  epicure  of  light, 
The  Doric   heart,  strong,  simple, 

passionate, 
Thy  priest  of  Beauty,  and  thy  priest  of  Right. 

XV. 


Last  of  the  elder  choir  save  one  whose  smile 

Is  gentler  for  its  memories,  they  rest. 
Mourn,  goddess,  come  apart  and  mourn  awhile* 

Come  with  thy  sons,  lithe   Song- Queen   of   the 

West- 
The  poet  Friend  of  Poets,  the  great  throng 

Of  seekers  on  the  long  elusive  quest, 
And  the  lone  voice  of  Arizonian  song. 


XVI. 


OR  absent  they,  thy  latest- 
born,  O  Muse, 
My  young  companions  in  Art's 

wildwood  ways ; 

She  whose   swift    verse   speaks 
words  that  smite  and  bruise 
With  scarlet  suddenness  of  flaming 

phrase, 
Virginia's  hawk  of  Song ;  and  he  who 

sings 

Alike  his  people's  homely  rustic  lays 
And  his  fine  spirit's  high  imaginings, 


XVII. 


Far-stretching  Indiana's  melodist, 

Quaint,  humorous,  full  of  quirks  and  wanton  whims, 
Full-throated,  with  imagination  kissed ; 

With  these,  two  pilgrims  from  auroral  streams, 
The  Greek  revealer  of  Canadian  skies 

And  thy  close  darling,  voyager  of  dreams, 
Carman,  the  sweetest,  strangest  voice  that  cries. 


XVIII. 

ND  thou,  friend  of  my 
heart,  in  fireside  bonds 
Near  to  the  dead,  not  with 

the  poet's  bay 
Brow-bound    but    eminent   with 

kindred  fronds, 
Paint  us  some  picture  of  the 

summer  day 

his    memorial  —  the   distant 
dune, 

The  marshes  stretching  palpitant  away 
And  blue  sea  fervid  with  the  stress  of  noon. 


For 


XIX. 


For  we  were  of  the  few  who  knew  his  face, 
Nor  only  heard  the  rumor  of  his  fame ; 

This  house  beside  the  sea  the  sacred  place 
Where  first  with  thee  to  clasp  his  hand  I  came  — 

Art's  knight  of  courtesy,  well-pleased  to  commend 
Who  to  my  youth  accorded  the  dear  name 

Of  poet,  and  the  dearer  name  of  friend. 


XX. 


H,  that  last  bottle  of  old  Gas- 


con  wine 

We  drank  together !    I  re 
member  too 
How  carefully  he    placed   it 

where  the  shine 
Of   the  warm  sun  might 
pierce  it  through  and 
through  - 
Wise  in  all  gentle,  hospitable  arts  — 

And  there  was  sunshine  in  it  when  we  drew 
The  cork  and  drank,  and  sunshine  in  our  hearts. 


XXI. 


O  mourners  by  the  sea,  who  loved  him  most ! 

I  watch  you  where  you  move,  I  see  you  all ; 
Unmarked  I  glide  among  you  like  a  ghost, 

And  on  the  portico,  in  room  and  hall, 
Lay  visionary  fingers  on  your  hair. 

You  do  not  feel  their  unsubstantial  fall 
Nor  hear  my  silent  tread,  but  I  am  there. 


XXII. 


WOULD   my  thought 
had  but  the  weakest 
throat, 
To  set  the  air  a  -vibrate  with 

a  word. 
Alas  !  dumb,  ineffectual,  re 

mote, 
I  murmur,  but  my  solace  is 

not  heard  ; 
^K   Nor,  could  I  reach  you,  would  your 

grief  abate. 
What  sorrow  ever  was  with  speech 

deterred  ? 
What  power  has  Song  against  the  hand  of  Fate  ?.    .    . 


XXIII. 


Not  all  in  vain !    For  with  the  will  to  serve, 
Myself  am  served,  at  least.    A  secure  calm 

Soars  in  my  soul  with  wings  that  will  not  swerve, 
And  on  my  brow  I  feel  a  ministering  palm. 

Even  in  the  effort  for  another's  peace 

I  have  achieved  mine  own.    I  hear  a  psalm 

Of  angels,  and  the  grim  foreboding's  cease. 


XXIV. 

~~^^      SEE  ihmgs  as  they  are, 
£,.  ^;^-» 

nor  longer  yield 
To  truce  and  parley  with  the 

doubts  of  sense. 
My   certainty   of   vision   goes 

a-field, 
Wide-ranging,  fearless,    into 

the  immense ; 
And  finds  no  terror  there,  no 

ghost  nor  ghoul, 
Not  to  be  dazzled  back  to  impotence, 
Confronted  with  the  indomitable  soul. 


XXV. 

What  goblin  frights  us  ?    Are  we  children,  then, 
To  start  at  shadows  ?    Things  fantastic  slay 

The  imperishable  spirit  in  whose  ken 
Their  only  birth  is  ?    Blaze  one  solar  ray 

Across  the  grisly  darkness  that  appals, 
And  where  the  gloom  was  murkiest,  the  bright  Day 

Laughs  with  a  light  of  blosmy  coronals. 


XXVI. 


TRETCH  wide,  O 
marshes,  in  your  golden  joy ! 
Stretch    ample,    marshes,  in 

serene  delight ! 
Proclaiming  faith  past  tempest 

to  destroy, 

With  silent  confidence  of  con 
scious  might ! 
Glad  of  the  blue  sky,  knowing  nor  wind  nor  rain 

Can  do  your  large  indifference  despite, 
Nor  lightning  mar  your  tolerant  disdain ! 


XXVII. 


The  fanfare  of  the  trumpets  of  the  sea 
Assaults  the  air  with  jubilant  foray ; 

The  intolerable  exigence  of  glee 
Shouts  to  the  sun  and  leaps  in  radiant  spray ; 

The  laughter  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore 
Shakes  like  the  mirth  of  Titans  heard  at  play, 

With  thunders  of  tumultuous  uproar. 


XXVIII. 


LAYMATE 

of  terrors! 
Intimate  of  Doom ! 
Fellow  of  Fate  and 
Death!    Exultant 
Sea! 

Thou  strong  compan 
ion    of    the    Sun, 
make  room ! 
Let  me  make  one  with  you, 

rough  comrade  Sea ! 
Sea  of  the  boisterous  sport  of  wind  and  spray ! 

Sea  of  the  lion  mirth !    Sonorous  Sea ! 
I  hear  thy  shout,  I  know  what  thou  wouldst  say. 

XXIX. 

Dauntless,  triumphant,  reckless  of  alarms, 
O  Queen  that  laughest  Time  and  Fear  to  scorn, 

Death,  like  a  bridegroom,  tosses  in  thine  arms. 
The  rapture  of  your  fellowship  is  borne 

Like  music  on  the  wind.    I  hear  the  blare, 
The  calling  of  the  undesisting  horn, 

And  tremors  as  of  trumpets  on  the  air. 


XXX. 


EA-CAPTAIN  of  whose  keels  the 

the  Sea  is  fain, 
Death,  Master  of  a  thousand  ships, 

each  prow 
That  sets  against  the  thunders  of  the 

main 
Is  lyric  with  thy  mirth.     I  know 

thee  now, 
O  Death,  I  shout  back  to  thy  hearty  hail, 

Thou  of  the  great  heart  and  the  cavernous  brow, 
Strong  Seaman  at  whose  look  the  north  winds  quail. 


XXXI. 


Poet,  thou  hast  adventured  in  the  roar 
Of  mighty  seas  with  one  that  never  failed 

To  make  the  havens  of  the  further  shore. 
Beyond  that  vaster  Ocean  thou  hast  sailed 

What  old  immortal  world  of  beauty  lies ! 
What  land  where  light  for  matter  has  prevailed ! 

What  strange  Atlantid  dream  of  Paradise ! 


XXXII. 


OWN  what  dim  bank 
of  violets  did  he  come, 
The  mild  historian  of  the 

Sudbury  Inn, 
Welcoming  theetothat  long- 

wished-for  home  ? 
What  talk  of  comrades  old  didst  thou 

begin  ? 
What  dear  inquiry  lingered  on  his  tongue 

Of  the  Sicilian,  ere  he  led  thee  in 
To  the  eternal  company  of  Song? 


XXXIII. 

There  thy  co- laborers  and  high  compeers 
Hailed  thee  as  courtly  hosts  some  noble  guest — 

Poe,  disengloomed  with  the  celestial  years, 
Calm  Bryant,  Emerson  of  the  antique  zest 

And  modern  vision,  Lowell  all  a-bloom 
At  last,  unwintered  of  his  mind's  unrest, 

And  Walt,  old  Walt,  with  the  old  superb  aplomb. 


XXXIV. 
QoOO 

OT  far  from  these  Lanier,  deplored 

so  oft 

From  Georgian  live-oaks  to  Aca 
dian  firs, 
Walks  with  his  friend  as  once  at 

Cedarcroft. 
And  many  more  I  see  of  speech 

diverse ; 

From  whom  a  band  aloof  and  sep 
arate, 

Landor  and  Meleager  in  converse, 
And  lonely  Collins,  for  thy  greeting  wait. 


XXXV. 

But  who  is  this  that  from  the  mightier  shades 
Emerges,  seeing  whose  sacred  laureate  hair 

Thou  startest  forward  trembling  through  the  glades, 
Advancing  upturned  palms  of  filial  prayer  ? 

Long  hast  thou  served  him ;  now,  of  lineament 
Not  stern  but  strenuous  still,  thy  pious  care 

He  comes  to  guerdon.     Art  thou  not  content  ? 


xxxvr. 


ORBEAR,  O  Muse,  to 

sing  his  deeper  bliss, 
What  tenderer  meetings, 
what  more  secret  joys ! 
Lift  not  the  veil  of  hea 
venly  privacies ! 
Suffice  it  that  nought  unful 
filled  alloys 
The  pure  gold  of  the  rapture  of 

his  rest, 

Save  that  some  linger  where  the  jarring  noise 
Of  earth  afflicts,  whom  living  he  caressed. 


XXXVII. 


His  feet  are  in  thy  courts,  O  Lord ;  his  ways 

Are  in  the  City  of  the  Living  God. 
Beside  the  eternal  sources  of  the  days 

He  dwells,  his  thoughts  with  timeless  lightnings  shod ; 
His  hours  are  exaltations  and  desires, 

The  soul  itself  its  only  period, 
And  life  unmeasured  save  as  it  aspires. 


IME,  like  a 
wind,  blows 

through  the  lyric  leaves 
Above   his   head,  and  from 

the  shaken  boughs 
Ionian  music  falls ;  but  he  receives 
Its  endless  changes  in  alert  repose, 
Nor  drifts  unconscious  as  a  dead 

leaf  blown 

On  with  the  wind  and  senseless  that  it  blows, 
But  hears  the  chords  like  armies  marching  on. 


XXXIX. 

About  his  paths  the  tall  swift  angels  are, 
Whose  motion  is  like  music  but  more  sweet ; 

The  centuries  for  him  their  gates  unbar ; 
He  hears  the  stars  their  Glorias  repeat ; 

And  in  high  moments  when  the  fervid  soul 
Burns  white  with  love,  lo !  on  his  gaze  replete 

The  Vision  of  the  Godhead  shall  unroll  — 


XL. 


RINE  within  trine,  inextri 
cably  One, 
Distinct,  innumerable,  insepa- 

rate, 
And  never    ending  what  was 

ne'er  begun, 
Within  Himself  his  Freedom 

and  his  Fate, 
All  dreams,  all  harmonies,  all  Forms  of  light 

In  his  Infinity  intrinsecate  — 
Until  the  soul  no  more  can  bear  the  sight. 


XLI. 


O  secret  taciturn  disdainful  Death ! 

Knowing  all  this,  why  hast  thou  held  thy  peace  ? 
Master  of  Silence,  thou  wilt  waste  no  breath 

On  weaklings,  nor  to  stiffen  nerveless  knees 
Deny  strong  men  the  conquest  of  one  qualm  — 
'    And  they,  thy  dauntless  comrades,  are  at  ease, 
And  need  no  speech,  and  greet  thee  calm  for  calm. 


XLII. 


AST  them  adrift  in  wastes 

of  ageless  Night, 
Or  bid  them  follow  into 

Hell,  they  dare ; 
So  are  they  worthy  of  their 

thrones  of  light. 
O    that    great     tranquil 
rapture  they  shall  share ! 
That  life  compact  of  adamantine  fire ! 

My  soul  goes  out  across  the  eastern  air 
To  that  far  country  with  a  wild  desire !    .    k    % 


XLIII. 

But  still  the  marshes  haunt  me;  still  my  thought 
Returns  upon  their  silence,  there  to  brood 

Till  the  significance  of  earth  is  brought 
Back  to  my  heart,  and  in  a  sturdier  mood 

I  turn  my  eyes  toward  the  distance  dim, 
And  in  the  purple  far  infinitude 

Watch  the  white  ships  sink  under  the  sea-rim ; 


XLIV. 

OME    bound    for    Flemish 

ports  or  Genovese, 
Some  for  Bermuda  bound, 

or  Baltimore ; 

Others,  perchance,  for  fur 
ther  Orient  seas, 
Sumatra  and  the  straits  of 

Singapore, 
Or  antique  cities  of  remote 

Cathay, 

Or  past  Gibraltar  and  the  Libyan  shore, 
Through  Bab-el-mandeb  eastward  to  Bombay  ; 


XLV. 


And  one  shall  signal  flaming  TenerifTe, 
And  the  Great  Captive's  ocean-prison  speak, 

Then  on  beyond  the  demon -haunted  cliff, 
By  Madagascar's  palms  and  Mozambique, 

Till  in  some  sudden  tropic  dawn  afar 
The  Sultan  sees  the  colors  at  her  peak 

Salute  the  minarets  of  Zanzibar. 


NOTES 


NOTES. 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS. 

The  subject  of  this  elegy  was  born  at  Boston  in  1819,  and 
educated  at  the  Boston  Latin  School.  While  yet  a  young 
man  he  visited  England  and  Italy,  with  which  latter  country 
and  its  literature  his  life  was  to  be  so  largely  occupied. 
From  early  youth  he  was  a  devoted  student  of  Dante,  to  the 
translation  of  whose  "Divine  Comedy"  he  chiefly  applied 
his  scholarship  and  poetic  genius.  In  1854  he  published  a 
volume  of  original  poems,  among  which  were  the  famous 
verses,  "  On  a  Bust  of  Dante,"  which  found  their  way  at 
once  into  all  the  anthologies.  Several  other  volumes  were 
privately  printed,  and  in  1892  he  published  "  Circum  Praecor- 
dia,"  which  contained,  besides  a  versification  of  the  collects 
of  the  Church  as  set  forth  in  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer, 
about  a  dozen  original  poems  of  a  religious  nature.  The 
translation  of  the  first  ten  cantos  of  the  "  Inferno  "  was  pub 
lished  in  1843,  and  the  complete  "Inferno"  in  1867.  The 
opening  cantos  of  the  "  Purgatorio  "  were  issued  in  1876, 
and  the  remaining  cantos  were  afterward  completed  and  are 
now  in  process  of  publication.  In  1870  Mr.  Parsons  was 
made  a  Corresponding  Fellow  of  the  Reale  Accademia  de' 
Fisiocritici  in  Siena.  He  died  at  Scituate,  Mass.,  Septem 
ber  3,  1892. 


"  Dr.  Parsons  holds  a  place  of  his  own.  He  is  one  of 
those  rare  poets  whose  infrequent  work  is  so  beautiful  as  to 
make  us  wish  for  more.  In  quality,  at  least,  it  is  of  a  kind 
with  Landor's ;  his  touch  is  sure,  and  has  at  command  the 
choicer  modes  of  lyrical  art  —  those  which,  although  fashion 
may  overslaugh  them,  return  again,  and  enable  a  true  poet 
to  be  quite  as  original  as  when  hunting  devices  previously 
unessayed.  His  independence  on  the  other  hand,  is  exhibited 
in  his  free  renderings  of  Dante 

"  Parsons's  briefer  poems  often  are  models,  but  occasion 
ally  show  a  trace  of  that  stiffness  which  too  little  employ 
ment  gives  even  the  hand  of  daintier  sense.  '  Lines  on  a 
Bust  of  Dante,'  in  structure,  diction,  loftiness  of  thought, 
is  the  peer  of  any  modern  lyric  in  our  tongue.  Inversion, 
the  vice  of  stilted  poets,  becomes  with  him  an  excellence, 
and  old  forms  and  accents  are  rehandled  and  charged  with 
life  anew.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Dr.  Parsons  has  not 
used  his  gift  more  freely.  He  has  been  a  poet  for  poets, 
rather  than  for  the  people ;  but  many  types  are  required*  to 
fill  out  the  hemicycle  of  a  nation's  literature." 

—  Stedman's  Poets  of  America. 

"  The  study  of  a  great  man  is  an  education.  Dr.  Parsons 
has  been  an  unwearied  student  of  Dante  for  thirty  years 
[1869],  and  has  reaped  commensurate  benefits  from  the 
familiarity.  His  lines  to  the  immortal  Florentine,  by  com 
mon  consent,  are  ranked  with  the  very  noblest  efforts  of  the 
American  Muse.  Among  the  other  traits  in  the  matchless 
style  of  Dante,  are  his  unique  conciseness  and  precision. 
His  descriptions  are  coined  rather  than  painted ;  his  meta 
phors  are  not  pictures,  but  medallions.  This  artistic  horror 
of  slovenly  work,  this  conscientious  finish  of  severe  sim 
plicity  and  force,  the  apt  pupil  shares  with  the  great  master." 

— W.  R.  ALGER. 

"  He  occupies  some  such  place  in  American  poetry  as  Gray 
or  Collins  does  in  English  poetry,  not  having  written  much, 
but  extremely  well.  The  poet  is  not  living  in  the  country 
who  could  have  written  a  stronger,  grander  poem  than  that 
on  the  '  Bust  of  Dante,'  beginning  : 


'  See,  from  tliis  counterfeit  of  him 

Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 

The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song.' " 

—  WM.  HAYES  WARD. 


STANZA   I. 

"  In  Nova  Scotia's  woods." 

This  poem  was  written  in  Windsor,  Nova  Scotia,  at  Kings- 
croft,  the  residence  of  Mr.  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts,  where  the 
author  was  staying  when  the  news  of  the  poet's  death  reached 
him.  Kingscrof t  is  situated  on  the  edge  of  a  beautiful  wood 
of  great  fir-trees  on  an  elevation  overlooking  the  Avon  River 
and  the  Basin  of  Minas. 

STANZA  in. 

"  Far  off  where  Scituate  lapses  to  the  sea" 
Scituate,  where  the  poet  died,  is  a  village  lying  midway 
between  Boston  and  Plymouth  on  that  part  of  the  coast  of 
Massachusetts  which  is  known  as  the  South  Shore.  The 
country  is  of  a  gently  undulating  character,  and  the  view 
seaward  is  across  salt  marshes  broken  here  and  there  with 
low  hillocks  of  a  sandy  formation. 

STANZA  XIV. 

"  A  double  loss." 

The  poet  WHITTIKR  died  but  a  few  days  after  the  death 
of  Parsons. 

STANZA  XV. 

.     .     .     "  save  one  whose  smile 

Is  gentler  for  its  memories," 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

"  The  poet  Friend  of  Poets  " 
EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

Whittier,  in  dedicating  one  of  his  volumes  to  Stedman, 
called  him  "  Poet,  and  Friend  of  Poets." 

"  And  the  lone  voice  ofArizonian  song," 
JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


STANZA  XVI. 

"  She  whose  swift  verse,"  e£c., 
AMELIE  RIVES  CHANLER. 

STANZA  XVII. 

"  Far-stretching  Indiana's  melodist, 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

"  The  Greek  revealer  of  Canadian  skies, 
CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS. 

STANZA  xvni. 

.     .     .     "  in  fireside  bonds 
Near  to  the  dead," 

THOMAS   BUFORD   METE  YARD,  the  painter,   a  relation  of 
Dr.  Parsons. 

STANZA  XXXII. 

"  The  mild  historian  of  the  Sudbury  Inn," 
LONGFELLOW.  The  old  tavern  at  Sudbury  was  the  scene 
of  "The  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn."  Parsons  was  the  origi 
nal  of  the  Poet  in  that  volume,  and  his  brother-in-law,  Luigi 
Monti,  of  the  Sicilian,  to  whom  allusion  is  also  made  in  this 
stanza. 

STANZA  XXXIV. 

.     .     .     "  as  once  at  Cedar  croft  " 

The  home  of  Bayard  Taylor,  between  whom  and  Lanier  an 
intimate  bond  of  friendship  existed. 

STANZA  XXXV. 

"  But  who  is  this,  that  from  the  mightier  shades 
Emerges," 
DANTE. 

.     .     "  now,  of  lineament 
Not  stern  but  strenuous  still," 
refers  to  Parsons' s  lines ; 

"  How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim 
The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song." 


STANZA   XXXVIII. 

"  Time,  like  a  wind,  blows  through  the  lyric  leaves 
Above  his  head,  and  from  the  shaken  boughs 
jEonian  music  falls  •  " 


SAPPHO. 

STANZA  XLV. 

.     .     .     "  the  demon-haunted  cliff." 

The  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  originally  called  the  Cape  of 
Tempests.  It  is  here  that  the  spectral  ship  of  Vanderdecken 
is  supposed  to  be  seen  in  stormy  weather,  still  battling 
against  the  insuperable  wind.  Vanderdecken,  the  "  Flying 
Dutchman,  "tried  to  double  the  cape  in  spite  of  a  heavy  gale. 
Baffled  again  and  again,  he  swore  that  he  would  carry  out 
his  purpose  in  spite  of  God  or  the  Devil,  though  he  had  to 
sail  till  the  Day  of  Judgment.  For  this  blasphemy  he  was 
doomed  to  be  taken  at  his  word,  and  became  a  sort  of  Ahas- 
uerus  of  the  sea.  This  cape  is  also  the  scene  of  that  tremen 
dous  passage  in  the  "Lusiad,"  where  the  giant,  Adamastor, 
appears  in  cloud  and  storm  to  the  adventurous  Portuguese 
sailors,  and  warns  them  back  from  their  enterprise  : 

"  N5o  acabava,  quando  uma  figura 
Se  nos  mostra  no  ar,  robusta  e  vilida, 
De  disforme  e  grandissima  estatura, 
O  rosto  carregado,  a  barba  esqudlida  : 
Os  olhos  encovados,  e  a  postura 
Medonha  e  ma,  e  a  cor  terrena  e  pallida; 
Cheios  de  terra,  e  crespos  os  cabellos, 
A  bocca  negra,  os  denies  amarellos. 

"  Tarn  grande  era  de  membros,  que  bem  posso 

Certificar-te,  que  este  era  o  segundo 

De  Rhodes  estranhissimo  colosso, 

Que  um  dos  sete  milagres  foi  do  mundo  : 

C'  um  torn  de  voz  nos  falla  horrendo  e  grosso, 

Que  pareceu  sair  do  mar  profnndo  : 

Arripiam-se  as  carnes,  e  o  cabello 

A  mi,  e  a  todos,  so  de  ouvil-o,  e  vello. 


"  Mais  la  per  diante  o  monstro  horrendo 

Dizendo  nossos  lados,  quaudo  ai£ado 

Lhe  disse  eu:  'Quern  es  tui*  que  esse  estupendo 

Corpo,  corto  me  tern  raaraviliiado." 

A  bocca,  e  os  olhos  negros  retorceudo, 

E  dando  um  espaiitoso  c  graude  brado, 

Me  respondeu  corn  voz  pesada  e  amara, 

Como  quem  da  pcrguiita  Ihe  pezara : 

"'Eu  sou  aquelle  occulto  e  grande  cabo, 
A  quem  chamais  v<5s  outros  Tortnentorio ; 
Que  nuuca  a  Tolomeu,  Pomponio,  Estrabo, 
Plinio,  e  quautos  passaram,  fui  notorio  : 
Aqui  toda  a  africana  costa  acabo 
N'  este  men  nunca  visto  promontorio, 
Que  pera  o  polo  antarctico  se  estende, 
A  quem  vossa  ou?adia  tanto  offeude. 

"Fui  dos  filhos  asp^rrimos  da  terra, 
Qual  Enc^lado,  Egeu,  e  o  Centimano; 
Chamei-me  Adamastor;  e  fui  na  guerra 
Contra  o  que  vibra  os  raios  de  Vulcano: 
NSo  que  puzesse  serra  sobra  scrra; 
Mas  conquistando  as  ondas  do  Oceano, 
Fui  capitao  do  mar,  per  onde  andava 
A  armada  de  Neptuno,  que  eu  buscava.'  " 

— CAMOKNS. 


A  STUDY 


THOMAS   WILLIAM   PARSONS. 

THE  greatest  achievements  in  poetry  have  been  made  by 
men  who  lived  close  to  their  times,  and  who  responded  easily 
to  their  environment.  Not  that  Taine  was  altogether  right 
in  his  climatic  theory.  The  individual  counts  for  much,  and 
his  output  is  really  the  result  of  the  combined  action  of 
two  influences,  his  personality  and  his  surroundings  —  a  sort 
of  intellectual  parallelogram  of  forces.  Nor  is  great  poetic 
accomplishment  necessarily  a  sympathetic  expression  of  con 
temporary  tendencies.  On  the  contrary,  it  may  often  an 
tagonize  them.  But  whether  it  antagonize  or  approve,  it 
it  is  apt  to  be  vitally  related  to  them.  No  man  ever  set  bis 
face  more  strenuously  against  the  trend  of  his  age  than 
Dante,  nor  denounced  its  manners  and  morals  more  severely; 
yet  Dante  was  directly  concerned  in  the  practical  affairs  of 
his  day,  and  his  epoch  is  epitomized  in  his  poems.  Of 
course,  great  poetry  bases  itself  below  the  shifting  surfaces 
of  eras  and  nationalities  upon  the  immovable  bed-rock  of 
our  common  humanity;  and  so  the  greatest  poets,  the  poets 
who  express  life  most  fundamentally,  come  to  have  a  certain 
likeness  to  one  another,  even  though  they  be  as  widely  sepa 
rated  in  time  and  space  as  Homer  and  Shakspere.  But  the 
poet  must  learn  his  human  lesson  at  first  hand ;  he  must  find 
the  essential  realities  of  life  where  he  can  see  them  with  his 
own  eyes,  under  the  transitory  garments  which  they  wear  in 
his  day;  and  to  do  this  he  must  be  interested  in  his  day. 

There  have  been  now  and  again,  however,  certain  poets 


who  seem  to  have  been  born  out  of  due  time.  They  have 
not  been  opposed  to  their  age  so  much  as  apart  from  it. 
The  Hamlets  of  verse,  for  them  the  time  has  been  out  of 
joint,  and  they  have  not  had  the  intensity  or  the  resolution 
to  strive  to  set  it  right.  Thrown  back  upon  themselves  by 
an  environment  which  was  distasteful  to  them,  but  which 
they  lacked  either  the  force  or  the  inclination  to  wrestle  with 
and  overcome,  they  have  necessarily  had  little  to  say.  But 
on  that  very  account  they  have  frequently  given  more  thought 
to  the  purely  artistic  side  of  their  work  than  more  copious 
writers.  Such  men  were  Collins  and  Gray,  and  afterward 
Landor ;  men  whom  we  admire  more  for  the  classic  beauty 
of  their  style  and  for  other  technical  qualities  than  for  the 
scope  of  their  imagination  or  the  penetration  of  their  insight. 
Of  this  class  of  poets,  and  with  no  mean  rank  among  them, 
was  Thomas  William  Parsons. 

Beginning  to  write  contemporaneously  with  the  earliest 
American  poets,  at  a  time  when  only  the  veriest  doggerel 
had  yet  been  perpetrated  in  this  country,  he  felt  keenly  the 
sense  of  isolation  which  it  was  the  lot  of  men  of  letters  in 
those  days  to  experience  —  an  isolation  the  reality  of  which 
the  younger  generation  finds  it  difficult  to  appreciate.  This 
is  the  excuse,  though  it  is  certainly  not  a  justification,  for 
the  deprecatory  and  provincial  tone  which  characterizes 
what  are  probably  the  earliest  of  his  poems  that  have  been 
preserved,  the  "Letters"  which  stand  at  the  beginning  of 
his  first  volume.  Not  Dickens  himself  was  more  flippantly 
scornful  of  America  and  the  Americans  than  is  Parsons  in 
these  "  Letters;  "  and  though  in  the  preface  to  them  he  at 
tributes  the  sentiments  they  contain  to  an  imaginary  "  wan 
dering  Englishman,"  thus  disclaiming  them  as  personal,  he 
shows  even  in  doing  so  something  more  than  a  dramatic 
sympathy  with  the  attitude  they  portray.  This  provincial 
ism  Parsons  soon  outgrew,  but  he  never  came  to  be  in  perfect 
touch  with  his  country,  nor  to  have  that  sense  of  easy 
security  with  regard  to  her  which  should  mark  the  citizen  of 
a  nationality  fully  mature. 

Yet  even  in  these  presumably  juvenile  verses  there  is  much 
vigorous  writing  and  some  genuine  humor.  This  on  Boston, 
for  example : 


41  This  town,  iu  olden  times  of  stake  and  flame, 

A  famous  nest  of  Puritans  became  : 

Sad,  rigid  souls,  who  hated  as  they  ought 

The  carnal  arms  wherewith  the  devil  fought; 

Dancing  and  dicing,  music,  and  whate'er 

Spreads  for  humanity  the  pleasing  snare. 

Stage-play?,  especially,  their  hearts  abhorred, 

Holding  the  muses  hateful  to  the  Lord, 

Save  when  old  Sternhold  and  his  brother  bard 

Oped  their  hoarse  throats,  and  strained  an  anthem  hard. 

From  that  angelic  race  of  perfect  men 

(Sure,  seraphs  never  trod  the  world  till  then!) 

Descends  the  race  to  whom  the  sway  is  given 

Of  the  world's  morals  by  confiding  Heaven." 

There  was  always  a  strain  of  true  religious  feeling  in  Par 
sons,  which  deepened  at  the  last  into  something  rapt  and 
intense;  but  Puritanism  never  ceased  to  be  hateful  to  him, 
and  this  antagonism  contributed  to  make  him  feel  that  his 
footsteps  were  on  alien  soil.  An  artist  first  of  all,  he  was 
drawn  more  toward  the  services  of  the  ancient  Church,  for 
whose  adornment  art  has  so  bountifully  poured  out  its  treas 
ures,  than  to  any  balder  form  of  worship.  To  him  the  world 
was  a  problem  in  beauty  and  emotion.  He  was  not  incom 
moded  with  a  message,  as  so  many  of  his  contemporaries 
were.  This  has  been,  perhaps,  to  the  detriment  of  his  repu 
tation  in  the  past ;  it  may  be  to  its  advantage  in  the  future. 
The  man  who  speaks  too  consciously  a  message  to  his  own 
time  is  apt  to  have  none  for  any  other.  Parsons  wrought 
from  first  to  last  in  the  true  artistic  spirit,  and  it  is  not  un 
likely  that  his  chief  claims  to  the  recognition  of  the  future 
will  be  found  in  qualities  of  form  and  style. 

Not  the  least  among  these  qualities  will  be  that  sturdy 
literary  independence  which,  amid  the  widespread  aesthetic 
revival  of  this  century,  achieved  a  success  of  a  purely  aes 
thetic  nature  on  lines  entirely  unaffected  by  the  contemporary 
fashion.  In  a  time  of  metrical  experiment,  and  of  the  new 
and  strange  harmonies  of  Rossetti  and  Swinburne,  he  alone 
of  the  artistic  school  of  poets,  uninfluenced  even  by  Cole 
ridge  or  Shelley,  worked  in  the  severe  methods  of  an  earlier 
day.  Dryden  and  Pope  seem  to  have  been  his  earliest  mas 
ters,  but  not  for  long.  The  versification  of  Dryden,  which 
Keats  learned  to  appreciate  at  its  true  value,  remained  always 


to  some  extent  a  factor  in  Parsons's  art,  but  he  soon  threw 
over  the  jingle  of  Pope's  measure  for  the  fuller,  statelier, 
and  in  truth  simpler  manner  of  Collins  and  Gray.  Yet  his 
matured  style  is  neither  that  of  Collins,  with  whom  he  had 
close  resemblances,  personal  and  poetical,  nor  that  of  Gray, 
though  unquestionably  akin  to  both.  Parsons  had,  besides, 
a  certain  bent  for  plain  words  and  homely  images  that  some 
times  became  Dantesque.  Indeed,  the  lifelong  study  which 
he  gave  to  Dante  could  not  be  without  its  influence  on  his 
own  expression  —  an  influence  potent  for  strength  and 
directness. 

Parsons  was  probably  Gray's  inferior  in  point  of  taste,  for 
otherwise  we  can  hardly  understand  how  he  could  put  forth 
in  the  same  volume,  and  sometimes  in  the  same  poem,  such 
inequalities  as  he  permitted  himself.  Yet  it  must  be  said,  as 
an  offset  to  this,  that  he  seldom  made  himself  responsible 
for  a  poem  by  publishing  it.  He  occasionally  had  verses  in 
the  magazines,  and  even,  if  the  whim  took  him,  in  the  news 
papers  ;  but  only  twice  in  his  life  did  he  bring  the  question 
of  his  critical  judgment  fairly  within  the  scope  of  comment 
by  issuing  a  volume  to  the  public.  The  first  of  these  volumes, 
which  contains  the  famous  "  Lines  on  a  Bust  of  Dante,"  may 
perhaps  rely  upon  the  youth  of  its  author  as  an  explanation  of 
its  unevenuess.  The  other,  "  Circum  Prsecordia,"  published 
in  the  year  of  his  death,  and  consisting  of  a  versification  of 
the  collects  of  the  Church  together  with  a  few  original  poems 
of  a  religious  character,  is  of  even  and  sustained  excellence, 
though  rising  to  the  level  of  his  best  work  only  in  its  con 
cluding  poem,  "  Paradisi  Gloria."  Mrs.  Parsons  had  several 
other  volumes  printed  for  private  circulation  only,  but  of 
these  the  author  frequently  knew  nothing  until  the  bound 
copies  were  placed  in  his  hands.  What  he  would  himself 
now  select  to  give  to  the  world  no  one  can  tell ;  possibly  as 
carefully  edited  a  volume  as  even  that  of  Gray. 

Such  a  volume  would,  I  believe,  be  one  of  the  treasures  of 
American  verse  —  a  book  that  lovers  of  poetry  would  carry 
with  them  as  they  would  similar  thin  volumes  of  Herrick, 
Marvell,  Collins  or  Landor.  The  lyrics  addressed  to  Fran- 
cesca  are  true  Herrick  for  grace  and  daintiness,  and  there  is 
pothing  in  Landor  finer  than  such  passages  as  this : 


"  His  henrl  was  written  o'er,  like  some  stray  page 
Torn  out  from  Plutarch,  with  majestic  names;  " 

or  these,  from  "  Francesca  di  Rimini :  " 

"  Be  it  some  comfort,  in  that  hateful  hell, 
You  had  a  lover  of  your  love  to  tell." 

"  But  he  whose  numbers  gave  you  unto  fame, 
Lord  of  the  lay  — I  need  not  speak  his  name  — 
Was  one  who  felt;  whose  life  was  love  or  hate. 
Born  for  extremes,  he  scorned  the  middle  state, 
And  well  he  knew  that,  since  the  world  began, 
The  heart  was  master  in  the  world  of  man." 

I  have  referred  to  the  "  Paradisi  Gloria."  This  poem,  with 
one  unwisely  altered  line  restored  to  its  original  reading,  is 
one  of  the  few  faultless  lyrics  in  the  language ;  and  the  fol 
lowing  stanza,  with  which  it  begins,  is,  I  submit,  as  felicitous 
as  anything  Gray  ever  wrote,  and  more  imaginative ; 

"  There  is  a  city  buildcd  by  no  hand, 
And  unapproachable  by  sea  or  shore, 

And  unassailable  by  any  band 
Of  storming  soldiery  forevermore." 

Less  fine,  perhaps,  but  still  very  beautiful  is  the  touching 
"Dirge:" 

"What  shall  we  do  now,  Mary  being  dead? 

Or  say  or  write,  that  shall  express  the  half? 
What  can  we  do  but  pillow  that  fair  head, 

And  let  the  springtime  write  her  epitaph?  " 

Each  of  these  poems  is  marked  by  that  simple  and  straight 
forward  style  which  was  the  glory  of  Parsons  at  his  best. 
But  he  could  also  handle  more  involved  periods  and  a  more 
complex  csesural  music  with  equal  skill;  witness  the  opening 
lines  of  "La  Pineta  Distrutta :  " 

"Farewell  Ravenna's  forest!  and  farewell 
For  aye  through  coming  centuries  to  the  sound, 
Over  blue  Adria  of  the  lyric  pines 
And  Chiassi's  bird-song  keeping  burden  sweet 
To  their  low  moan  us  once  to  Dante's  lines, 


Which  when  my  step  first  felt  Italian  ground 
I  strove  to  follow,  carried  by  the  spell 
Of  that  sad  Florentine  whose  native  street 
(At  morn  and  midnight)  where  he  used  to  dwell 
My  Father  bade  me  pace  with  reverent  feet." 

From  poems  like  these  to  "  The  Feud  of  the  Flute-Players  " 
is  a  far  cry,  but  it  argues  well  for  the  humanity  of  our  poet 
that  he  could  be  merry  when  he  would.  The  line, 

"  In  a  tap-room  by  the  Tiber,  at  the  sign  of  Tarquin's  Head," 

is  as  jolly  a  bit  of  Bohemianism  as  any  I  know,  and  the  entire 
story  is  told  with  much  spirit  and  humor.  "  St.  Peray,"  an 
other  bacchanalian  lyric,  has  found  its  way,  like  the  "  Lines 
on  a  Bust  on  Dante,"  into  the  anthologies,  and  may  be  passed 
by  here  with  a  mere  reference. 

"  Count  Ernst  von  Mansfeldt,  the  Protestant,"  if  three 
rather  weak  and  quite  unnecessary  stanzas  could  be  removed 
from  it,  would  be,  perhaps,  the  strongest  poem  Parsons 
ever  wrote.  It  is  certainly  the  most  objective,  and  one  of 
the  most  manly  and  vigorous. 

"  The  dicer  Death  has  flung  for  me ; 

His  greedy  eyes  are  on  me ; 
My  chance  is  not  one  throw  in  three ; 

Ere  night  he  will  have  won  me. 

"  Summon  my  kin !  —  come  steed  —  come  coach  — 

Let  me  not  stay,  commanding; 
If  the  last  enemy  approach, 

They  shall  see  me  armed  and  standing. 

"  Buckle  me  well  and  belt  me  strong! 
For  I  will  fall  in  iron." 

This,  with  the  stirring  "  Martial  Ode,"  which  begins, 

"  Ancient  of  days !    Thy  prophets  old 

Declared  Thee  also  Lord  of  war; 
And  sacred  chroniclers  have  told 

Of  kings  whom  Thou  didst  battle  for," 

proves  that  Parsons  knew  how  to  put  into  practice  that 
strenuous  counsel  of  his  own : 


"  But  something  rough  and  resolute  and  sour 
Should  with  the  sweetness  of  the  soul  combine; 

For  although  gentleness  be  part  of  power, 
'Tis  only  strength  makes  gentleness  divine." 

With  the  masterly  technical  power  and  equipment  that 
Parsons  undoubtedly  had,  why  did  he  not  do  more?  Why  is 
his  permanent  original  contribution  to  English  literature 
limited  to  a  few  lyrics?  For  this  I  can  find  no  better  reason 
than  that  which  I  have  already  suggested,  that,  being  out  of 
sympathy  with  his  time,  he  found  no  theme  for  his  song. 
The  achievements  of  this  age  he  admired,  when  at  all,  as  an 
outsider,  and  frequently  his  attitude  was  the  reverse  of  ad 
miration.  Homers  must  have  their  Agamemnons  as  well  as 
Agamemnons  their  Homers;  and  to-day  was  not  heroic  to 
Parsons.  To  him  the  railway  suggested  nothing  but 

"  The  dead  sleepers  of  the  vulgar  track," 

and  commercial  greatness  smacked  ever  of  the  Philistine. 
He  would  probably  have  been  as  uncomfortable  in  Athens  as 
in  Boston ;  and  while  he  could  love  Venice  dead,  Venice  liv 
ing  (where,  as  so  often  in  history,  Trade  and  Art  went  out 
hand  in  hand,  conquering  and  to  conquer)  would  have  been 
as  distasteful  as  Chicago.  It  is  true  that  the  traders  of 
Athens  and  the  Adriatic  braved  great  personal  dangers,  and 
brought  back  from  their  voyages  strange  and  gorgeous  fab 
rics,  "  barbaric  pearl  and  gold,"  and  tales  of  incredible  ad 
venture  in  the  unknown  world.  Our  modern  conquests,  in 
commerce  as  in  science,  with  some  notable  exceptions,  are 
of  a  more  impalpable  kind,  and  make  no  such  sensuous  appeal 
to  the  imagination.  And  so,  for  some,  the  circumnavigation 
of  the  globe  has  ended  all  romance,  even  though  the  unknown 
be  still  as  mysteriously  present  in  New  York  as  in  the  "  shin 
ing  vales  of  Har." 

The  risk  and  the  imagination  involved  in  modern  achieve 
ment  are  enormous,  and  even  the  element  of  personal  danger 
is  by  no  means  eliminated;  and  if  there  were  vulgar  things 
in  the  conquest  of  California,  I  doubt  not  there  were  also 
vulgar  things,  more  nearly  of  the  same  kind  than  we  are  apt 
to  think,  in  the  conquest  of  Gaul.  But  anybody  can  see  the 


vulgarity.  It  is  the  poet's  function  to  show  that  this  is  a 
mere  accident,  and  that  the  essential  reality  still  throbs  as 
ever  with  a  lyric  rapture ;  that 

"  in  the  mud  ami  scum  of  things 
There's  something  ever,  ever  sings." 

Few  poets,  indeed,  have  been  completely  catholic  of  in 
sight,  nor  do  they  necessarily  lose  their  title  of  interpreters 
because  they  are  not  universal  interpreters,  and  limit  them 
selves  to  the  field  or  fields  for  which  they  have  a  spontaneous 
sympathy.  Parsons,  even  when  he  rationally  approved,  had 
no  spontaneous  sympathy  for  the  present,  its  attitude  or  its 
tendencies.  To  sing  of  it,  or  to  sing  of  the  past  with  the 
voice  of  the  present,  his  aesthetic  instinct  felt  would  be 
but  a  tour  de  force,  and  seldom  and  reluctantly  was  he  per 
suaded  to  attempt  it.  Occasionally  he  poured  his  fine  rheto 
ric  into  denunciation,  written  from  the  heart;  but  here,  too, 
his  artistic  feeling  stepped  in  and  restrained  him  to  brief 
utterance,  for  he  knew  well  that  scolding  is  not  great  nor 
dignified. 

One  thing  there  was  that  he  saw  clearly  his  way  to  do  — 
to  reproduce  for  this  age  the  voice  of  the  age  which  he  did 
love,  and  of  the  poet  for  whom,  even  from  boyhood,  he 
cherished  a  devotion  almost  personal.  In  making  this  choice 
and  following  his  instinct,  I  believe  he  was  right,  and  that 
we  have  obtained  a  greater  poem  than  wre  should  have  done 
had  he  forced  himself  into  attempting  a  sustained  work  of 
his  own.  Nor  is  this  a  derogation  in  any  way  from  Parsons's 
unquestioned  poetic  power,  as  any  one  who  knows  anything 
about  the  almost  insuperable  difficulties  of  translation  is  well 
aware.  In  fact,  it  may  be  said  with  perfect  truth  that  a 
good  translation  is  rarer  than  a  good  original  poem.  The 
successful  transfer  of  even  the  briefest  lyric  from  one 
language  to  another  is  an  achievement  so  unusual  as  to  de 
mand  the  most  unreserved  commendation,  while  even  the 
partly  successful  renderings  of  the  great  masters,  in  all 
languages,  are  so  few  that  their  names  may  be  spoken  in 
one  breath. 

Parsons's  translation  of  the  "  Divine  Comedy"  is  far  from 


being  a  paraphrase  of  the  original,  but  yet  it  makes  no  pre 
tense  to  absolute  literalness.  Indeed,  a  truly  literal  transla 
tion  is  a  linguistic  impossibility.  Over  and  above  the  merely 
metrical  difficulties  of  such  an  undertaking,  there  must  always 
be  two  classes  of  phenomena  in  which  the  two  poems,  the 
original  and  the  version,  will  differ,  and  often  very  materi 
ally,  from  each  other.  The  metrical  scheme  may  be  pre 
served,  but  the  rhythmical  filling  in  of  this  scheme  must 
necessarily  vary;  for  the  syllables  of  the  corresponding 
words  in  different  languages  will  almost  certainly  have  dif 
ferent  time  values.  In  one  they  may  have  many  consonants, 
and  be  perforce  slow  in  articulation ;  in  the  other  they  may 
consist  entirely  of  short  vowels  and  tripping  liquids.  The 
predominance  of  short  syllables  in  Italian  enabled  Dante  to 
use  feet  of  three  or  more  syllables  in  an  iambic  measure  with 
much  greater  frequency  than  would  be  possible  in  English, 
and  this  fact  alters  wholly  the  character  of  a  measure  of 
which  the  metrical  scheme  is  the  same  in  both  languages. 
It  is,  of  course,  so  evident  as  hardly  to  warrant  allusion  that 
the  sounds  themselves  cannot  be  the  same;  and  yet  their 
expression  as  mere  sounds  is  a  very  vital  factor  in  their 
poetic  force. 

The  other  class  of  phenomena  in  which  an  original  and  its 
translation  must  always  differ  is  not  acoustic,  but  linguistic. 
As  I  have  had  occasion  to  say  elsewhere,  "words  differ  in 
what,  for  lack  of  a  better  word,  we  must  call  color.  With 
the  possible  exception  of  Volaptik,  in  which,  for  this  very 
reason,  no  one  but  a  statistician  would  ever  think  of  writing 
poetry,  there  is  no  language  in  existence  in  which  the  words 
are  merely  conventional  symbols  of  the  ideas  for  which  they 
stand.  Every  word  we  speak  has  a  pedigree  that  goes  back 
to  Adam.  It  has  been  developing  into  what  it  now  is, 
through  uncounted  accretions  and  curtailments  and  trans 
formations,  ever  since  man  was,  and,  since  Professor  Gar 
ner's  experiments  with  monkeys,  we  may  suspect  even  a 
little  longer ;  and  in  the  course  of  that  long,  eventful  history 
it  has  gathered  to  itself  a  multitude  of  little  associations 
which,  without  presenting  themselves  directly  to  the  under 
standing,  modify,  enrich  and  color  the  effect  of  the  primary 
meaning,  like  the  overtones  of  a  musical  note.  Without  this 


colorific  value  of  words,  we  could  express  little  more  by  speech 
than  by  the  symbols  of  algebra.  This  is  the  chief  difficulty 
of  the  translator,  and  one  that  he  can  never  surmount." 

Prose  translations  of  what  in  the  original  was  verse  vary, 
of  course,  from  that  original  in  even  more  respects,  since 
they  deliberately  sacrifice  an  entire  group  of  expressional 
devices  which  formed  an  important  part  of  the  poet's  inten 
tion.  An  argument  may  be  made  for  the  use  of  prose  in 
translating  the  poetry  of  the  ancients,  for  their  versification 
differed  from  ours  in  a  radical  manner.  But  there  can  be  no 
excuse  for  an  English  prose  version  of  a  poem  written  in 
any  modern  European  language,  if  it  be  intended  for  more 
than  an  assistance  in  the  study  of  the  original.  Admirable 
as  the  workmanship  in  some  of  our  prose  versions  of  Dante 
has  been,  I  cannot  but  think  that,  except  for  some  such 
scholarly  purpose,  the  labor  and  the  skill  expended  upon 
them  have  been  misapplied. 

At  the  opposite  extreme  from  the  prose  versions  are  those 
that  have  been  made  into  terza  rima.  It  cannot  be  denied 
that  the  use  of  Dante's  own  arrangement  of  rhymes  is  an 
advantage,  nor  that  Dante  himself  laid  much  stress  upon  it. 
But  he  had  mystical  reasons  for  doing  so  that  are  not  of 
great  consequence  to  us  now,  and  Parsons's  translation, 
while  preserving,  in  common  with  the  versions  in  terza  rima 
and  with  those  in  blank  verse,  the  meter  of  the  original  (the 
iambic  pentameter),  loses  but  little  of  the  effect  of  the 
rhyme  structure.  His  quatrains,  by  the  liberal  use  of  run-on 
lines  and  the  occasional  introduction  of  a  third  rhyme, 
achieve  that  effect  of  continuity  which  is  the  most  distin 
guishing  characteristic  of  the  original.  I  venture  to  think 
that  almost  no  one,  even  among  poets,  would  be  able  to  tell 
whether  the  complex  rhyme  system  of  the  terza  rima  were 
exactly  carried  out  in  any  poem  to  the  reading  aloud  of 
which  he  should  listen  for  pure  enjoyment,  and  without 
special  effort  to  observe  that  particular  phenomenon.  Still, 
however  slight  the  advantage  be,  it  is  nevertheless  an  advan 
tage  to  have  preserved  the  terza  rima  ;  but  this  gain  is  more 
than  overcome  by  the  Dantesque  quality  of  the  style  in  Par 
sons's  version.  The  manner  of  the  others  often  suggests 
the  contemporaries  of  Dante,  rather  than  Dante  himself. 


There  remain  for  consideration  and  comparison  the  two 
renderings  into  blank  verse.  These  are  the  most  widely 
known  of  the  various  translations,  and  one  of  them,  Gary's, 
is  the  form  in  which  Dante  is  most  generally  read  by  Eng 
lish-speaking  readers.  Longfellow's  version,  though  occa 
sionally  it  transfers  a  line  more  successfully  than  any  of  the 
others,  is  in  the  main  perfunctory,  and  its  literaluess  is 
carried  so  far  that  it  frequently  degenerates  into  a  "  crib  " 
pure  and  simple.  There  is  a  story  that  Longfellow  used  to 
translate  eighty  lines  every  morning  before  breakfast.  I  do 
not  know  how  true  this  may  be,  but  the  internal  evidence 
seems  to  support  it.  The  product  of  his  labor  is  a  caput 
mortuum  ;  the  categorical  statements  are  all  there,  but  some 
how  the  poetry  has  evaporated.  The  result  is  tedious  and  unin 
teresting.  Now,  the  one  quality  Dante  never  had  is  dullness, 
and  that  is  also  the  one  quality  the  public  will  never  forgive. 

Gary's  translation  has  the  merit  of  being  tolerably  read 
able.  But  in  it  the  great  Italian  poet  suffers  a  strange  trans 
formation.  The  words  are  the  words  of  Dante,  but  the 
voice  is  the  voice  of  Milton ;  or  rather  of  a  weaker-lunged  man 
trying  to  mouth  the  mighty  periods  and  caesuras  of  Milton, 
and  getting  somewhat  cracked  of  voice  and  broken  of  wind 
in  the  effort.  Nevertheless,  it  is,  on  the  whole,  a  creditable 
performance ;  only  it  is  not  Dante. 

Each  of  the  translators  has  his  felicitous  moments,  and 
succeeds  in  rendering  certain  passages  with  more  skill  than 
his  competitors.  But  the  relative  merit  of  the  translations 
must  be  estimated,  not  by  passages,  but  by  the  general  im 
pression  of  the  whole  work.  Parsons  is  inferior  to  some  of 
the  other  translators  in  certain  obvious  verbal  and  prosodical 
accuracies.  But  his  poem  probably  gives  a  more  correct 
impression  of  Dante  in  his  entirety  than  any  of  the  others. 
His  versification  has  the  continuity  of  Dante's,  and  some 
thing  of  its  music.  His  diction,  like  Dante's,  has  that 
supreme  refinement  that  knows  no  disdain  for  homely  words 
and  phrases.  His  style,  with  more  inversions  than  Dante's, 
has  much  of  the  master's  severity  and  swiftness,  though  it 
falls  short  of  the  masterfulness  and  supple  power  of  the 
Italian.  Altogether  there  is  more  Dante  in  it  than  in  any 
translation  that  has  yet  been  made. 


It  has  been  difficult  for  me  to  write  critically  of  a  man  for 
whom  I  had  a  warm  affection,  and  who  honored  me  with  his 
friendship  and  esteem.  If  I  have  erred  on  the  side  of 
severity,  it  has  been  from  a  fear  lest  my  personal  regard  for 
the  man  should  unduly  influence  my  judgment  of  the  poet; 
and  if  I  have  erred  in  his  praise,  it  wrill  be  easily  forgiven. 
But  I  do  not  think  that  I  mistake  in  assigning  to  him,  as  a 
translator  a  station  with  the  highest,  and  as  an  original  poet 
a  niche  with  Collins  in  the  temple  of  English  song. 

UlCIIARD   HOVEY. 

In  Atlantic  Monthly. 


Seaward 


M511970 


953 

H846 


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